POTC: How Many Miles to Babylon?
by ShahbanouScheherazade
Summary: For ten years after stealing the cursed gold, Barbossa searched for the medallions and the blood that would free him, and dreamed of a girl he had almost killed. Could death and defeat become victory? Could love ever grow in such a cold heart? Parallels Ch. 7-12, Barbossa & the King's Messenger. Just posted: Ch. 5 - A Captain So Evil.
1. Dies Irae

_How many miles to __Babylon__? __Three score miles and ten.  
__Can I get there by candle light? __Yes, and back again._

_- Traditional nursery rhyme_

**A/N:** A special thank you to **mrspencil** for her help and encouragement.

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean.

* * *

**Dies Irae**

What had he done that was so wrong?

Mutiny? Mutinies happened all the time; they were part of life on the high seas. Theft? Theft was his business, he thought angrily, his livelihood – theft, and all that went with it! _Take what ye can, and give nothing back_: the rule of sailor and plunderer, both.

Yet, even as he raged against his fate, Barbossa knew the answer. Alone in the captain's quarters, his sharp mind forced him to confront one immutable truth after another: he was not innocent; he had transgressed. He had taken something that was under supernatural protection. _You do not steal from the__ heathen__ gods._ How many myths and legends make that point? Yet, he had dared it, and now the consequences were unfolding before his eyes; unstoppable, inexorable.

He was damned – damned for all eternity. That was how these vengeful gods treated thieves. And he had no one to blame but himself.

He stared at the little square of moonlight on the chart table.

He had only to extend his hand into that unholy light to see once more the rotten bones with shreds of flesh and nail clinging to them. Keeping his arm folded protectively against his chest, he studied the knuckles of his enfleshed hand, and clenched his fist. He could still feel the first wave of helplessness and horror that had swept over him in that instant when he had learned what despair felt like – _true_ despair, total loss of hope. Blackness.

Using one hand, he pulled a chair away from the table and into the shadows, carefully averting his eyes as he did so, and slowly eased himself into its seat. He must think. If he refused to give way to despair, he might still win: so long as he could use his wits, he was still in the game.

The punishment had been swift and sure: first came the wakefulness, no matter how fatigued they were. They had put this down to their anticipation of the spree awaiting them in Tortuga. But no sooner had they made port in that brigand's paradise, than the truth became undeniable: not a man among them could taste the rich food they could now afford, or feel the effects of the rum that they consumed like water. No perfume could they smell, nor tempting flesh could they feel, no matter how they tried. Starving, thirsty, and aching for the touch of a lover, they were sad, bewildered dogs, all of them.

But Barbossa had been first to discover the worst effect, the final prison: his own body. He had reached towards a seductive, regal-looking strumpet who stood laughing outside the Faithful Bride, just as a thin ray of moonlight punched a tiny hole in the overcast night sky, and illuminated his outstretched hand.

He had drawn it back in an instant, quickly enough to insult the sensibilities of the haughty wench. She turned away from him in a show of distain, but he was hardly aware of her departure. Heart pounding, he had already turned his face to the wall and, thus shielded from prying eyes, was examining his hand closely. What sort of delusion could have made him see a skeleton's bones in place of his own elegant hand? He could see nothing out of the ordinary, but fear gripped him like an iron collar; this was no drunkard's dream, for he was stone cold sober. It was then that he recalled the moon striking his outstretched hand as it had mouldered before his very eyes.

He edged towards a patch of moonlight where he would not be observed, and slowly extended his hand. The moment the moonlight fell upon it, his flesh rotted away and his ring hung loosely on the bone of his finger.

Only the bravest of men would have done what Barbossa did next. Keeping an eye out for bystanders, he moved his arm a bit further into the pale light. Instead of his forearm, more bones appeared, more shreds of rotting flesh. Slowly, the fine lace that hung from his sleeve turned to ragged, dirty tatters, like remnants of cerecloth from some corpse that had lain many years in a neglected grave.

In a state of wordless shock, he slipped away from the noisy crowd and down to the quay. Mercifully, the clouds were once again obscuring the moon; but he would not trust in that celestial veil for protection. He drew up his arms so that the sleeves of his coat covered his hands, and he kept his face lowered until the shore boat reached the _Pearl_. Once aboard, he strode quickly to his quarters, snarling an order to the watch that he was on no account to be disturbed.

And so no man saw him in that apocalyptic moment when he stood in his moonlit sleeping quarters and looked full in the glass that hung there. A monster looked out at him – a monster with a crumbling face, from which his own eyes stared back. He had cried out in sheer terror at his true state, and felt his bowels and bladder loosen. Helpless, despairing, he had collapsed and fallen to his knees, his mind reeling with horror.

His life was in ruins, destroyed by a divine power he had disastrously misjudged and could not hope to challenge. This power had decreed that he would be trapped forever in a hideous travesty of his own body, with no sense of taste or feeling. At the very moment when riches and physical pleasures of every variety seemed to dance at his fingertips, he found them forever beyond his reach. But the fatal blow had fallen on his pride; his face, his body, were gone. His mind and soul inhabited nothing more than a rotting corpse. What woman would not run screaming at the very sight of him?

_So this be the way Hector Barbossa's story ends,_ he thought in a moment of bitter clarity. _Better to die, and quickly._

Drawing his pistol, he aimed at his own chest. He squeezed the trigger, and heard the shot fire. And then? Nothing. He waited, and then pulled his shirt open to look at the gaping wound in his chest. The shot had been good, but the wound began to close as he watched it. No, there would be no blessed release through the door of death, not for him.

Full realisation dawned on him at last: he was doomed to these horrors until the end of time. Utterly undone, he leaned against the bulkhead, weeping with great, dry, gulping breaths. He had the courage to die, but not to live on in this cursed state.

His tears flowed as they had not done since the day his father abandoned them for a young village woman. That had been a lifetime ago, and yet now he sobbed as if he were a child again, grieving over his lost good looks, his ragged clothes, and the wreck of his future days, until his exhausted body could no longer continue.

In the silence that ensued, he began fearfully to consider what he should do. It was essential that he pull himself together; firstly, to restore his own shattered self-respect, but even more, for the sake of his crew, who must never know he had abandoned hope, even for a moment. He brushed the front of his breeches with his hand, felt no dampness, and remembered that he had no sense of touch. Glancing down, he was surprised to find his clothes dry. Looking further and finding no evidence of his deepest shame, he had a sudden realisation that all bodily functions must have departed. Even his eyes were dry.

At this, a grim merriment descended on him._ Naturally,_ he reasoned. _Skeletons shed no tears_. He even laughed as he laid a shaking hand on his berth and pulled himself to his feet. At least it was one small victory; one throw of the dice that favoured him.

And then, as it had oftentimes before in his life, anger rescued him from pain and sorrow. _By what__ right did the gods break a man like that? _The thought filled him with a righteous fury. Aye, guilty he might be, but he was being punished unjustly, disproportionate to his crimes. He would fight back and he would win; somehow the curse could be lifted.

He racked his brain to remember everything he knew about the Aztec curse. There was something about returning the medallions to the chest. If the gold could not be spent, if the theft itself brought down the curse, then it stood to reason that the return of the treasure would be required.

A growing chorus of panicked voices from the deck interrupted these ruminations: his men were beginning to return from shore. They would need him. This was the moment he must rally them — giving them hope, and exhorting them to have faith in him as the man who would lead them out of their Gehenna.

He rose to his feet and, with a strength and vigour that surprised even himself, strode out on deck to take command of his crew. Their terrified eyes followed his progress as he marched up the steps to the quarterdeck.

He faced them with his head held high, and raised his arms for silence.

"Gents," he began, with the confident, swaggering tone they knew so well. "It appears that we find ourselves under a spell that would destroy most men. But you are not 'most men'. You are the crew of the mighty _Black Pearl_. I know all of ye - know ye like I know every nail and timber of this ship! And I tell you, we brethren will break this curse - and live to pass the story down to our children's children! Are ye with me?"

As the crew roared their approval, he called out his orders: "Then go back to Tortuga, gents! Find the gold ye spent there! And when we return the cursed medallions to the chest, we'll be livin' men once more!"

He watched them scramble into the boats, hoping against hope that his words would prove true. He must show conviction: if the crew sensed that he doubted the outcome, what would keep them from dooming themselves? They would go mad, some of them, and the ship's company would be scattered. He had to hold them together until they could overcome the curse. They would need to search farther than Tortuga to recover the gold they had so carelessly scattered. _How much of it would they need to put back?_ he wondered, as he returned to his quarters.

The inhabitants of Tortuga would recount stories of that night for many years, but the following day saw a measure of calm determination return to the crew of the _Pearl_, as they lined up to surrender the medallions to Barbossa's keeping. Each man stepped forward in turn, and placed the gold on their captain's table, as he recorded it in the ship's log. Afterward, Barbossa stood at the table, leaning forward with his hands braced on either side of the book as he scrutinised the figures. The final tally was woefully inadequate; only two hundred medallions had been recovered.

He lifted his head as his ears picked up the sound of a scuffle outside his door. A moment later, the door banged open and Bootstrap Bill Turner was shoved into the room by Master Twigg and Koehler. Bootstrap looked frightened, but his expression was set in a way that suggested a certain dogged obstinacy. The other two men scowled like Furies.

"Well, Turner," Barbossa asked slowly. "What d'ye have for me?" He tightened his mouth and fixed Bootstrap with a keen stare.

"Tell 'im," hissed Twigg, giving Bootstrap's arm a sudden wrench. "Tell 'im what ye did when ye went back to Tortuga. Ye were quick enough to tell the rest of us."

Bootstrap looked at each man in turn, and at last seemed to resign himself to his fate. His straightened his shoulders and looked Barbossa in the eye. "I want no part of this," he said. "I never did, only I spoke not a word when you sent Captain Sparrow to his death. I let you kill 'im, an' that makes me the same as you – a mutineer and a murderer." He shook himself free of Twigg's hold, and cleared his throat.

_By the powers, old Bootstrap's about to take a stand,_ thought Barbossa, widening his eyes. _Does he still know so little of me?_

"We broke the Code – all of us," Bootstrap declared. "And we deserve to be cursed – that's divine justice, that is. But you mean to give back the gold and get off with no punishment. So you'll be a cheat, as well as a mutineer and a murderer." He met Barbossa's glowering look with something like pride. "Well, you'll get no gold from me. I've sent one medallion where you'll never get at it. We damn well ought be cursed forever, and I've seen to it that we will be!"

"Is that so, Bootstrap?" asked Barbossa, in the same slow, polite tone. He lifted his hands from the table and rose to his full height, forcing the shorter Bootstrap to look up at him.

"And where would the likes of you think to send it?" he added with a smile, as he saw Bootstrap begin to realise his mistake. _Self-righteous bastard,_ he thought. _I'll serve you for this._

"Now, I be thinking," he suggested, "that ye should have talked less about yer family if ye meant to play this game with me." He paused, staring down at Bootstrap. Then he rapped out his next words sharply, "Wife-and-a-brat – am I right?"

"You'll never find 'em," Bootstrap insisted, but he was beginning to tremble. "For the love of God, Barbossa -" he begged, but the captain cut him off briskly.

"Aye, now, y' see that's just what I find m'self short of, at the moment," Barbossa replied, staring at him coldly.

Then he raised his voice to its full strength as his temper exploded. "Preach t' me, will ye?" he roared. "Doom us all by yer own hand? Devil rot yer guts, ye maggot!" Bootstrap cowered and raised his arms as if expecting Barbossa to strike him in the face.

Barbossa looked past the frightened man, and shouted, "Master Twigg! Take this Judas-dog topside, loose one of the six-pounders, and tie 'im on – by 'is bootstraps," he added, grinning with sudden inspiration.

As the two pirates dragged Bootstrap out of the room, Barbossa called Koehler back to give orders for the rigging of a hoist to lift the cannon. "Use the main halyard and make it fast to the capstan," he said.

Koehler hesitated. "Will it hold?" he asked.

"Long enough," Barbossa replied.

Koehler grinned. "Aye, captain," he answered with a nod, and departed with all speed to execute Barbossa's orders.

Twenty minutes later, Koehler reported that all was ready. Barbossa stepped onto the deck and inspected the cannon, as it dangled high in the air with the terrified Bootstrap hanging head down below it. "Brace her sharp up to port," Barbossa snapped, and the yard was hauled slowly around until the cannon and the unfortunate Bootstrap hung over the sea.

"How d'ye fancy the view, Turner?" Barbossa called out. "D'ye care to tell us where ye sent the medallion, or shall I send ye to the locker? This be the last time ye'll hear me ask ye."

Bootstrap grimaced pitifully, shaking his head from side to side. Barbossa reacted swiftly. "Then by the powers, I'll send ye to the bottom meself!" he thundered.

Seizing a hatchet from Koehler, he moved quickly towards the capstan, and brought the hatchet down with all his strength, severing the halyard that held the cannon aloft, in a single blow.

The halyard snapped free with a deadly recoil, as Barbossa and the crew jumped out of its way. In an instant, the cannon plummeted into the ocean, taking Bootstrap with it. On the deck of the _Pearl,_ there was no sound, save for the creak of the wooden vessel and the soft flapping of her sails.

Rousing himself from his own thoughts, Barbossa cast a quick eye over the mute assembly of men and snarled, "What are ye doin'? Sayin' yer prayers? _Back t' work, ye lice!_" He let the hatchet fall from his hand, and the men silently drew out of the way as he returned to his quarters.

Once alone, he considered what plan would best serve his purpose. _Where had Bootstrap said his family lived?_ he thought. _Ramsgate? No; Rotherhithe. Then to Rotherhithe we'll go. But perhaps it would be well to make sure of our venture. _

He reflected on the best way to discover the means of removing the curse. Then his face brightened. There was one who would know, one with whom he had made an accord. Now that accord had been broken. As he reckoned it, she was now his debtor, having falsely promised to protect him from death – and what was he now, if not dead?

He made his way to his sleeping quarters, intent on changing the rags he wore for better clothes, but when he threw off his coat and vest and unfastened his breeches, the grotesque sight of his rotting remains shook him to the core. _Carrion,_ he thought with revulsion, as he quickly fastened his clothes and dressed himself once more in his tattered coat. He would not attempt to change his clothes again.

Solemnly, he went to his chart table and unrolled a map. He smoothed its edges, putting weights on each corner to hold it down. Then he began to plot a course for Cuba and the Pantano.

* * *

Next: Barbossa meets with Tia Dalma to bargain for her help and to seek an unusual favour.


	2. The Supplicant and the Priestess

Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean.

* * *

**The Supplicant and the Priestess**

Hector Barbossa opened his eyes as the early morning light began to filter into the great cabin. Not that he ever slept; that healing comfort, like all others, had become a thing of the past. Nevertheless, in the evenings, when weariness lay heavy on him, he persisted in attempting to sleep and, more importantly, to dream.

He reached for the hairpin he carried in his coat pocket, and fingered it thoughtfully, recalling the girl whose hair it had adorned. Caged in her cabin, she had picked the lock with insulting ease and vanished from the ship whilst he and the other mutineers were busy forcing Sparrow into the sea. He sighed. Drowned, that was his opinion. She looked too slight to be a swimmer. _T'would be as likely she could sprout wings_, he concluded dismissively. But then, he reminded himself, who would have reckoned she could pick the lock?

Alive or dead, she still haunted him. During the watches of the night, as he lay on his bed with eyes closed but mind awake, he would will himself to fall asleep and see her in a dream, even though he knew the futility of it. Of course, in the sort of dreams he wished for, there would be no awkward, inconvenient circumstances to overcome.

To start with, she would not be the daughter of a man he wished to kill. She would not be attached to Sparrow; in fact, she would treat Sparrow contemptuously and reject his advances.

She would be alive, Barbossa mused, and would belong to him alone. She would be wealthy and titled – perhaps a duchess – but he would have won her affections completely; she would admire everything about him, and to pleasure him, she would venture anything he asked.

He shifted his weight, discontented. This should be the point where his dreams intersected with his desires; but sleep and dreams eluded him, nor could he even remember certain sensations clearly. Not that his craving for carnal pleasures had departed; indeed, at times he thought it would take twenty women to sate his heated longings. But for now, all of his appetites were doomed to torment him until the curse could be lifted.

With eyes half-closed, he sat staring at the chart table, his thoughts returning once more to the dead girl_. Nina Bitter_, he mused. _Friend o' Jack Sparrow. Where did ye go?_ He judged her to be as hot-blooded as himself, recalling how her eyes had shone as she joined the _Pearl's _crew in fighting off some other ship of miscreants just one day before the mutiny. Not the best fighter, but bold as a tigress protecting her cubs.

He smiled at this notion, then he pictured the little tigress in another setting, not with her usual placid expression, but fiery-eyed with lust and adoration for him. In their heated but amorous wrestling, she would wrap her arms around him and rake his back with her fingers as she pressed herself hard against him, and he would know exactly how to direct her passions. He would give her kisses she would never forget, Barbossa thought, as his breathing grew heavy. And then . . .

"Let go the anchor!" came Bo'sun's order from the deck, bringing Barbossa's thoughts back from his reverie with a jolt.

The shouted command told him that they had reached the mouth of the Pantano, and were anchoring just offshore. The hour was at hand for him to confront a certain petite, dreadlocked lady and have answers from her. He looked at his hand and was surprised to find it gripping the hairpin tightly. He slipped the small memento back into his pocket, and made ready to negotiate with Tia Dalma.

Not far from the bay where the _Pearl_ was anchored, the great cypress trees of the Pantano cast deep shadows across an eccentric little house in their midst. Even on the brightest days, the light was dim and indistinct, necessitating the constant use of candles in the parlour where Tia Dalma sat. She herself had no need of the flickering little lights, but her visitors did, and she was expecting one of them to call on her.

She sat with eyes closed, seeing the _Pearl_ at anchor. _Him nyah need a boat now,_ she thought. _Water be de same as air to de undead._ And indeed she sensed her guest as he approached on foot, walking beneath the clear waters of the bay, then following the Pantano river, and finally striding through the brackish waters of the swamp. She did not need the sound of his boots on the small dock to know he was just outside.

Tia Dalma opened her eyes as he fumbled with the door for a moment, and smiled to herself as he stepped into her parlour. _Captain Barbossa, at last. Me knew yuh would have questions._

Her visitor would have seemed calm and composed to mortal eyes, but her preternatural sight perceived a black aura of anger and desperation that filled the air around him. Rather than greeting him, she waited in silence for his first words, knowing well what they would be.

"We had an accord." His voice was low and dangerous, barely under control.

"We _have_ an accord," she corrected him serenely. "Nothin' change dat."

"Then how be it that I find m'self cursed and dead?" Barbossa enquired in a smooth voice, though the glint in his eyes was far from pleasant.

She grinned. "Yuh still a fine-lookin' mon, Hector. Even when yuh cursed. But though yuh be not among de livin', yuh not dead either. I t'ink yuh know dat already. Dere be somet'in else on yuh mind."

"Tell me how to break the curse!" he exclaimed impatiently.

"An' what yuh gimme in exchange?" She laughed and waved him to a chair, but he remained standing. She turned on her heel with a small toss of her dreadlocks, and walked away from him, swinging her hips with an air of indifference. "We mek an accord dat I gwan save yuh from death, an' yuh gwan see dat de Brethren Court unbind me." She looked back at him and narrowed her eyes. "Don't say nothin' 'bout cursed gold."

"By the powers, ye be right," said Barbossa, pretending surprise, as if he had not thoroughly considered this point when working out his strategy for these negotiations.

With a sly look at her, he added, "And I suppose there be some Pirate Lords who might answer me when I summon the Brethren, though I be naught but a skeleton."

He stopped for a moment, then took a sharp breath and added, "But many others there be who would say Hector Barbossa has no right to convene the Court – that since he's no longer among the livin', it be proper to name another Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea – one who respects the verdict of the First Court, an' seeks not to release . . . _Calypso_." As he spoke her name, the flames of the candles shimmered for a moment.

He had hoped that this argument might move her to intervene in his plight, but he was disappointed. Tia Dalma faced him with an imperious wave of her hand. "Yuh t'ink me nah kyan wait for anodder time, if yuh fail me? Anodder age of men? Do yuh know how long me been bound in me bones?"

Staring him down with a grim smile, she added, "Don' forget who I am, _mortal_. A t'ousand years mean nothin' to me."

Barbossa humbled himself at once, making a low bow. "Far be it from me t' presume on yer good will, milady. Apologies if it seemed so. I be ever yer servant, faithful to me vow." As he spoke, it occurred to him that in his present state, time meant as little to him as it did to Tia Dalma. If Cortés' curse proved as difficult to remove as the spell that bound Calypso, he might spend numberless years trapped in his present hellish condition. The very thought was almost enough to overthrow all his courage.

But Tia Dalma had glimpsed his desperation, and her mood turned gentle and sympathetic, like the soothing calm of the ocean after a squall. "Ah, me dear, troubled mon," she said sweetly, combing his hair back with her fingers. "How me hate to see yuh suffer. If it ease yuh heart, I gwan tell yuh how to break de curse."

She stared into his eyes with tender concern, and a feeling of peace enfolded him, conquering his fears and quieting his heart. She had decided to help. Her unpredictable nature had inclined towards him at just the right moment, for which he was thankful and relieved. "I be ever in your debt, madam," he murmured.

"Firs', de gold must be return," she said, still smoothing his hair, "Yuh must bring back every piece – eight hundred eighty-two, I t'ink?" She guided him to a chair, encouraging him to sit down by pressing lightly on his shoulder. "But de gold gwan help yuh find it - w'en yuh get close, it gwan call out to yuh."

She paused. Barbossa nodded, but something in her expression made him hesitate. "So yer sayin' I need only return what I took, and that be all it takes to break the curse?"

Tia Dalma's mouth curved into a sweet smile. "Ah, yuh know me so well, dearest," she answered with a little wave of her hand. "Nah, dat not be all. All dem who stole de treasure must pay wit' dere blood."

Barbossa seized her wrist, pulling her hand away from his face, and stared at her in disbelief. "Are ye tellin' me that we all need t' die? What purpose be there in breakin' a curse if yer life be forfeit?" he asked, raising his voice.

"Yuh only spill ickle bit - a few drops - onto de gold," she answered, gently freeing her wrist. "But de blood must be repaid by every wan of dem. De fate of wan is de fate of all. Until den, yuh all cursed . . ." She hesitated, glancing down at the parlour table, and casually adjusted a crab shell with the tip of her finger.

"A few drops of blood be a small price . . ." he started to mutter, then stopped. "An' by what means d' ye suggest I get blood from skeletons?"

Tia Dalma glanced about at the jumble in her parlour. Her eyes caught sight of the object she sought, and she took a small dagger from one of the shelves and presented it to Barbossa. "Each mon gwan step up to de chest holdin' dis knife. Den him say: _Receive me blood, I humbly entreat_. Den dey cut dere hand an' spill ickle bit into de chest."

_No difficulty there,_ Barbossa thought. He would not even need to persuade the crew. They would leap at the chance to remove the curse. He noticed that Tia Dalma was watching him out of the corner of her eye, but he couldn't make out her purpose.

Then he remembered Bootstrap.

His was on the verge of mentioning Bootstrap's fate when a happy thought occurred to him: he had marked the _Pearl's_ position on that day. They would return and conduct an underwater search – child's play since they no longer needed air. Whether Bootstrap was contrite or not, they would seize him and bring him along. His blood would mingle with theirs, and the curse would be broken.

And yet, he was made uneasy by Tia Dalma's surreptitious looks. A cautious man, he thought a moment and then decided how to phrase the question she was clearly anticipating.

"Suppose we should find ourselves in need of blood from one no longer in our company?" he asked cagily.

She shrugged, but her grin told him that she had understood his situation perfectly. "Den yuh find anodder – him chile, whose veins carry him blood."

Barbossa nodded and continued to observe her manner with some concentration. At last, judging her to be in a propitious mood, he resolved to try her on another matter that weighed on his mind, however awkward it might be. He cleared his throat.

"Be she dead?" he brought out, after a few moments' pause.

Amused at him, Tia Dalma lifted her eyebrows. "Many be dead," she answered. "Who yuh speakin' of?"

"I think ye know," he replied, the corners of his mouth curling into a sarcastic smile.

"Oh!" she exclaimed in mock surprise. "Yuh mean she whose hairpin yuh carry wit' yuh!"

"Aye," he admitted, feeling somewhat embarrassed. "Does she live? Or is it her ghost I'll be seein' in the other world some day?"

Tia Dalma shrugged. "What do yuh t'ink happened to Witty Jack? Same story for 'ur."

As she answered him, Barbossa noticed something oddly familiar hanging beside Tia Dalma's loom; it might have made his heart leap, except that his heart no longer beat at all. His eyes rested upon a heavy braid of fine hair, bound up and hung from the frame among the skeins of silk and wool.

Ignoring Tia Dalma's blatant allusion to the mutiny, he walked to the loom and touched the braid. He was certain he recognized it, but there was no sense of feeling in his fingers. He withdrew the hairpin from his pocket and used it to touch the braid of hair.

"The same owner, devil strike me if I lie," he said, turning to face Tia Dalma. "Alive, or dead?"

"I don' see how dat concern yuh," she said simply. Her manner was cooling once more, as rapidly as a sun-warmed sea when the sky above suddenly clouds over. He knew that he must not delay, if he expected her to grant the favour he intended to ask.

"Well, now," he smiled, coaxing her. "I seem to recall that even Davy Jones saw his lady from time to time. I'm only lookin' for a similar arrangement." Taking a step toward her, he added, "T'is a hard thing to condemn a man to an eternity with no food, drink, sleep, or . . . companionship." He paused uncertainly, trying to read her mood.

"Dat is why it be a curse," she replied. "And I t'ink yuh know she nah wanted t' be yuh lady," she added with a wry smile. Still, either she sensed his hidden misery, or perhaps his reference to Davy Jones had struck some mysterious chord of sympathy within her, for she did not utterly refuse him.

"De curse nah kyan be disturb, me dear," she said. "But I gwan send yuh sleep, perhaps wan night each year, and den yuh dream whatever yuh choose. But dat will only make de rest of de time worse for yuh, poor mon."

"I care not," Barbossa replied quickly. "What more can be done t' me? Let me sleep even one night each year - and send me a dream t' hearten me!"

She looked him over, assessing him thoughtfully. "Well," she said at last, "don' say I didn't warn yuh." She walked past him and seated herself at the loom. His audience was over.

Barbossa strode towards the door, then halted in spite of himself. Hating any appearance of weakness, he was, nonetheless, impelled to seek one more answer. "When will ye send the first dream?" he enquired, unable to stop the words, yet knowing he should not ask.

Tia Dalma slowly turned her head from her work and stared at him. She looked as immovable as adamantine. "W'en I choose," she said, the smile on her lips belied by the steely finality in her voice. "Farewell, Hector Barbossa."

Some time after Barbossa had departed, Tia Dalma sat in her parlour with the young woman who had sought her protection. Nina's errands had kept her away from the shack nearly all day, but there had still been time for her to hear Barbossa's loud voice, as she steered her canoe home. She quickly found refuge in one of the many places where the branches of understory trees nearly touched the water. At last, Tia Dalma emerged and beckoned her to enter the now-empty parlour. The two women sat drinking mugs of a tea-like potion as Tia Dalma described Barbossa's visit.

"Now it unfolds," she said. "De curse has claim all de fine men of de _Pearl_. Him come to me to find what dey must do to lift de curse. Poor man, now him pay for all him wickedness – tryin' t' kill Witty Jack, tryin' t' kill yuh, takin' yuh shares of de gold. Remember," she added, shaking her head, "de snare most dangerous to yuh is de wan yuh set wit' yuh own hand for others."

"Did you reveal to him how to break the curse?" Nina asked in a voice tight with fear.

"De gold mus' be return, an' blood repaid from each of dem t'ieves. And de gold was scattered by der own hands 'cross de Caribbean. Now dey must undo all der reckless foolishness." She sighed. "An' Barbossa have done de most foolish t'ing of all."

For some moments, Nina gazed at her mug of tea with an absent expression. Then she glanced up at Tia Dalma with a look of hopeful anticipation. "Well, if Jack catches him first," she suggested, "he won't have time to undo anything. Jack will shoot the scoundrel, and then –"

"Ah!" Tia Dalma interrupted. "But, me dear, dey nah kyan die. Dey suffering more dan eternal hunger, t'irst an' desire: dere is no dyin'! No release from de horror of death-in-life. Try t' pity dem in yer heart – and t'ink yerself bless dat you an' Witty Jack escape."

Lost in thought, Nina sat solemnly with eyes lowered, clasping her mug with both hands. Tia Dalma rose from the table, and left Nina silently pondering the things she had heard.

* * *

Next: The pirates search for Bootstrap, some of the gold is repaid, and Tia Dalma grants Barbossa's wish, in her own way.


	3. The Tribute of the Brethren

Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean.

* * *

**The Tribute of the Brethren**

From the moment the cannon had come to rest upon the soft, sandy bottom of the sea, Bootstrap had struggled to find any posture that was remotely tolerable. He floated a little above the sand, with his legs twisted into an awkward position, grass waving in his face, and curious fish darting forward to nip at his skin. The cannon had landed on the knots that bound him, pressing them into the sea bed. Unable to move the cannon, and lacking his cutlass, he knew escape was impossible, and so he tried to resign himself to eternity.

Each night, he had watched his own bones glistening underwater as shafts of moonlight played upon them, and he had passed endless hours wondering how soon dawn would come. He had made a game of reckoning how many more times the sun and stars would go wheeling over his eternal resting place before the seas dried up and the world ended. Would there be even one shred of his mind left by then?

Worst, and yet sweetest of all, were his hopes and fears for his family, who were never absent from his thoughts. He recalled how cheerfully he would take his leave of them after each short visit, so certain of his own return, so sure that life would continue thus for many years. Then, in the blink of an eye, his life had been frozen and rotted by the curse and, from then on, the sun would bring daylight, but no future for him.

He pictured the last time his wife and young Will bade him farewell; they had watched as the boat took him out, Margaret's hand resting on their boy's shoulder. Will had begged to be allowed on the ship, but he had refused, determined to keep up the lie that he was an honest seaman. He thought about how Margaret must have reacted to his last letter enclosing the medallion, and pictured Will many years hence, as an old man with white hair, but with the gold still in his possession.

And then one day, as his thoughts ran the same course they always followed, there had been a tremendous disturbance in the grass bed. He would have thought the hull of a ship was descending on him, except that the ship would have had to be sailing underwater.

All at once, he saw a group of creatures pushing the grass aside and surrounding him. They were somewhat like men, but with hideous deformities and embellishments to their bodies and ruined faces as though they had been half absorbed by monstrous specimens of marine life. From the midst of this fearful company emerged one who was evidently their leader. Standing before him was none other than Davy Jones.

"D'ye fear death?" Jones asked him with a sneer. "Or d'ye fear this more? Shall I cut ye free? Are ye willin' t' pay the price?"

"Aye, cap'n," Bootstrap replied. "Name your terms."

"T' serve a hundred years aboard the most infamous ship known t' man," said Jones, his eyes glittering like hard stones. "Will ye serve?"

"I'd serve the devil himself to get free," answered Bootstrap.

Jones smiled. "Done!" he declared. Using the great claw that served as his left hand, he gripped the ropes and pinched them until they broke.

At the very moment the ropes fell loose, Bootstrap and the creatures who had freed him disappeared, leaving the cannon and ropes lying abandoned in the grass bed.

Several weeks later, a strange, dark ship appeared on the horizon, surrounded by a small fog bank as she sailed towards the spot where Bootstrap had been trapped. The _Black Pearl_ was returning to reclaim her own.

Since departing from the Pantano, Barbossa had interrogated nearly every man on the _Pearl _in an effort to trace the missing medallions. One by one, he had questioned them, recording their answers in his log. It was an exhausting, tedious chore, but he was determined to recover every piece of the stolen treasure.

Turnspittle, the ship's cook, was almost the last to be interviewed. He hesitated outside Barbossa's quarters, and then removed his hat and slicked his hair back with a greasy hand before reluctantly rapping on the door of the captain's day room. Although he knew Barbossa had summoned him merely to ask where he had spent his share of the gold, Turnspittle was always on edge in the presence of his terrifying captain. He was never sure when a chance remark might cause Barbossa to lose his temper. _An' look wot 'e did t' Bootstrap,_ Turnspittle thought. _You just watch yerself, old son, or 'e might 'ave you chucked off the ship next. This lot don't need a cook any more, do they?_

Barbossa looked up sharply as the cook sidled into his presence, hat in hand. "Well, Master Turnspittle," he said, wasting no time, "there be four pieces missin' from yer share. What's become of 'em?"

Turnspittle fiddled with his hat for a moment. "I put 'em by – with Tabor Stokes," he replied, naming a goldsmith in St Thomas who acted as banker to many pirates. Barbossa narrowed his eyes, and Turnspittle added, "I always try t' save a bit – might want 'em down the road."

Barbossa gave a short laugh and wrote something in the log. "All that be down the road fer pirates is t' die o' hempen fever," he retorted. He dismissed Turnspittle, and then sat studying the log.

Six hundred and seventy-nine medallions had been accounted for, even if they were not exactly in hand. He scanned the list, and noticed that a total of one hundred fifty medallions had been given to Tabor Stokes for safekeeping by various members of the crew. They would be visiting Mr Stokes' establishment in the near future, he decided; and he still needed to question Koehler about the last three medallions.

He closed his eyes for a moment, aware of the strange, continuous thrumming that all of them had noticed some time ago. It was not really a sound, since they heard it more in their thoughts than their ears. Similar to a swarm of bees buzzing, or a strange vibration in the distance, it was more noticeable in the quiet of his quarters than on deck. He knew what it meant; in fact, he had explained it to the crew. The low-pitched reverberation came from the medallions in the _Pearl's_ hold. It was the sound which would guide them to the rest of the missing gold, if it didn't drive them all mad first.

Would they find that Bootstrap had also gone mad by the time they pulled him from the water? Barbossa contemplated the possible effects of a month spent pinned to the sea floor. Perhaps Turner would have begun to see the sweet light of reason; he might decide to help them retrieve the gold he had hidden. It might have done him good to pay such a penalty, Barbossa mused. The one outcome that never occurred to him was that Bootstrap might have vanished.

Once they arrived in the general area where they had sunk Bootstrap, Barbossa made certain that the _Pearl _was anchored at the position he had recorded on that fateful day. Then he sent half the crew down to search for Bootstrap. He reckoned that the search might take hours, or even days, and resigned himself to patiently awaiting the results. To his surprise and dismay, the search was over almost as soon as it had begun.

It was Pintel and Ragetti who discovered that Bootstrap was gone, and that was largely due to Ragetti's touching confidence in Barbossa's navigational skill. As the pirates fanned out across the sand, searching a mile in every direction, Ragetti had tugged on Pintel's shirt.

"Wot if Cap'n Barbossa's got us right back to the spot where 'e threw old Bill over the side?" he asked.

Pintel frowned. "Where the bloody hell d'ye think we are? Of course 'e got us back to where Bootstrap went down," he replied with annoyance.

"But, I mean,_ right_ on the spot. Don't that mean Bill might be . . . there?" Ragetti pointed to the grass bed under the _Pearl_. "An' no one's lookin' there."

"Well, wot are you waitin' for? Go an' have a look!" Pintel told him.

Ragetti obliged and, within a few minutes, the two pirates were staring at the evidence of Bootstrap's escape.

"Cap'n won't like this," Ragetti said anxiously. Pintel picked up a few bits of rope, and then poked the sand with his finger, dislodging two small pieces of leather bootstraps which he added to his collection.

"No 'elp for it. Someone 'as t' tell 'im," he said resignedly, handing the items to Ragetti. "Might as well be you."

"Why me?" Ragetti protested.

"Wot can 'e do – kill ye?" Pintel pointed out. He turned about, waving his arms at the other crew members, who could be dimly seen searching other parts of the sea bed. "Come on then, let's get it over with." They took hold of the _Pearl's_ anchor line, and began to climb, hand over hand, back to the surface.

Watching Pintel clamber aboard the ship, Barbossa had a premonition of bad news. Then Ragetti appeared at the rail, and shuffled reluctantly towards Barbossa, shaking his head.

"Old Bill's got away, some'ow," he said sadly, offering the ropes and bootstraps to his captain. "This is all wot was left, apart from the cannon."

There was no change in Barbossa's expression, but he turned immediately to Bo'sun. "Call 'em in," he ordered, and waited until the last of the crew had returned.

"He's gone," he informed his men, watching their faces. It wasn't difficult to read their expressions.

They were all thinking the same thing: had it not been for his own ill temper, Bootstrap would still be standing in their midst. It was he, Barbossa, whose impulsive burst of anger had consigned Bootstrap to the depths and put him forever out of their reach. The crew's silence was a reproach, and beneath the reproach lay doubt in his ability as their leader. Barbossa took control of the situation at once, speaking in sharp, confident words.

"So we'll use the blood of his brat," he snapped. "One be as good as the other." He spoke to Bo'sun. "Give orders to weigh anchor."

As Bo'sun began calling orders, Barbossa strode towards his day room. "Bring those scraps," he called out to Ragetti.

Once in the captain's quarters, Barbossa took the rope and bootstraps to his chart table and studied them as Ragetti watched. He was perplexed to find that the ends of the rope and the bootstraps had actually been crushed until they were cut.

Unable to recognize the sort of instrument that could do this, Barbossa finally set the ropes aside and remarked, "I don't suppose Turner ever told ye where his family lives, did he?"

As he spoke, an annoying thought occurred to him: this would be exactly the sort of thing Jack Sparrow would have known without asking, the sort of thing he was good at. The men had always spoken with Sparrow about their lives, and he had seemed to listen and remember what they said; in contrast, no one on the crew ever sought out Barbossa for conversation. _As it should be,_ he assured himself. He wasn't there to fraternise. Still, he had a brief moment of doubt: _how did Sparrow do it?_

"Rotherhithe," Ragetti replied, interrupting Barbossa's train of thought. "East Lane, I think . . ." He shrugged, and added, "Near the Three Mariners Stairs, anyway, if the dust from the colliers ain't killed 'em yet ."

Barbossa nodded and jerked his head towards the door before turning his gaze back to the log book. Ragetti had stepped back obediently but, a moment later, Barbossa heard him clear his throat.

The captain looked up quickly. "Out with it," he said.

"I was just thinkin'," Ragetti began timidly. "If we're hearin' that noise from all them coins we've got stowed aboard . . ."

"Aye?" Barbossa prompted him impatiently.

"Well, I was only wond'rin' . . . how can we 'ear the other ones – them wot's far away an all?" Ragetti waited with humble expectation.

Barbossa quickly took in the implications of this, as well as the surprising revelation that perhaps Ragetti was possessed of a certain amount of insight; then he answered as though he'd known the solution all along.

"We've t' return what we're carryin' first," he explained. "Take it back to the cave. Then we'll hear the other ones callin' us."

Ragetti brightened. "Much obliged, cap'n. Should 'ave known you'd 'ave it sussed."

Barbossa acknowledged the compliment with a slight smile and a nod. He waited for Ragetti to go back to his station; then he assembled the crew at the mainmast and presented them with his plan.

"It be said," he began, "that the wise man knows what he must do, but t'is the bold man who does it. We _know_ what must be done, gents: we must restore the gold we took, and repay the blood we owe. But now we be called upon to _do_ it – whether it be with or without William Turner. True, it would have made our task easier if he were still in our midst: but _we have a way_, even without him!" He paused for a moment, surveying their faces and gauging their willingness to hear him out.

"We go to the cave," he urged. "We return the gold we've found, and every man jack of ye repays his share of the blood owed. And then? We find the rest of the gold, and Turner's brat as well!"

He heard a rumble of approval from the crew, but continued to speak, raising his voice above the noise. "I won't ask a man of ye t' do more than I would meself, and I mean t' see it through!"

Then he raised his hands for silence. "We be well on our way t' liftin' this curse!" he proclaimed loudly. "Bo'sun! Make way fer Isla de Muerta!" And with that, he returned to his quarters, to the cheers of his crew.

Barbossa was encouraged by the determination shown by his men when the _Pearl _reached the island. He brought the gold with him on the first longboat, and silently reviewed Tia Dalma's instructions as Twigg and Koehler piloted the boat through the cavern's tunnels and into the chamber where the empty stone chest awaited them.

Once all the men had arrived, they spoke in hushed tones, and only when necessary; otherwise, they waited in uneasy silence to do their captain's bidding. Barbossa ordered them to put the medallions in the chest, and he made a show of counting out each piece aloud, so that the crew could hear and count along with him. Then he had them stand away from the chest; he intended for the entire assembly to witness each of their shipmates stepping forward to repay his share of blood.

"Now, gents," he commanded. "Mark what I do, and what I say. This be the way we end the curse." He showed them Tia Dalma's knife, then he wrapped one hand about its blade. "Receive my blood, I humbly entreat thee," he solemnly intoned, and drew the knife swiftly across his palm. When he opened his hand, he was gratified to see a long, bloody cut from which several drops of blood fell into the chest.

Then he beckoned to Bo'sun, and handed him the knife. Bo'sun repeated the incantation, and drew the knife across his palm as Barbossa had, letting a few drops of blood spill into the chest.

Barbossa continued to direct the ceremony, which resembled an initiation as each pirate performed the ritual, then joined his brethren who had already made their symbolic offering. Feelings of relief began to replace their uncertainty, and the men talked amongst themselves; a few even laughed. They had all begun to hope that the curse would indeed be broken and their lives restored.

After the last man had spilled blood into the chest, Barbossa noticed that Ragetti was waiting nearby. "Master Ragetti," he remarked. "Ye look as though ye have a question. What be on yer mind?"

"I was only wonderin'," answered Ragetti. "'Ow do we make Bootstrap's brat say all that about receivin' blood? What if 'is brat won't say them words?"

Barbossa laughed. "T'is only ourselves that need say it – t' make the blood flow from our cursed veins. Bootstrap's brat won't need to, bein' still alive. I think ye'll find we get that blood easy enough." He grinned at the crew, who broke into cheers and laughter.

"An' then we'll be free o' the curse," he added. "D' ye know what I'm going t' do when we return t' the _Pearl_? I mean t' keep a bowl o' fresh apples in the great cabin, ready t' eat the moment the curse be broken." He acknowledged their shouts of agreement, thinking, _And that be the day I'll uncover the glass in me cabin again, an' see meself restored to me former appearance_.

It was pleasing to contemplate this idea, but he could not rid himself of the feeling that there was something else missing which would be restored to him. He realized what it was as soon as he overheard two of his men laughing about the wenches they would have after the curse was lifted. In a moment of inspiration, he remembered that there was a certain red gown aboard the _Pearl _which was associated with the memory of an elegant beauty; he decided to have it set out on display in his cabin to remind him of the other pleasures that would soon be his.

That evening, he surveyed his quarters with satisfaction: the bowl of apples was in place, the gown was laid out upon the settle, and a bed-sheet draped over the glass so that he would not be disturbed by the sight of his true appearance.

He consulted the ship's log, and decided to visit Tabor Stokes, the goldsmith in St Thomas who should have one hundred fifty medallions in his keeping. He closed the log book and began to feel drowsy for the first time in nearly a year. _Is there to be even more good fortune tonight?_ he wondered. Perhaps he would finally sleep and enjoy the dreams he had been expectantly hoping Tia Dalma would grant him. He retired to his sleeping quarters, trying to avoid doing anything that would cause wakefulness to linger. Yes, he would sleep tonight; as soon as he had stretched out upon the berth, he fell into a light slumber that gradually deepened, until at last he began to dream.

He had no awareness that it was a dream, of course. It appeared as genuine as the cannon he had used to sink Bootstrap. He was on the Pearl, which seemed to be a wooden house, but was still a ship. There was no one about, although somehow he knew that Ragetti was happy that the gold had been restored, and he heard Ragetti's voice from somewhere over his shoulder, saying, "Now you can find everything easier."

He walked across the deck, and then inside, where he ascended a flight of stairs (this was when the ship seemed to become house-like). At the top of the stairs, he continued down a hall, stopping at an open door on his left. He looked into the room, and saw the back of a familiar figure that stood at the side of a bed. It was the girl. She seemed to be unpacking something – a sack, or perhaps a small chest – no matter. She had finished some sort of travel, and was preparing to settle in to this room. He watched her turn very slightly, just enough for him to glimpse the side of her face, as she became aware of him standing silently in the doorway. She turned to face him, holding some small folded scarf or shift in her hands.

As she turned, their eyes met, and she continued to look at him without a trace of fear or reluctance – quite the opposite, in fact. Her expression was full of serenity, welcome, acceptance, and something more – gladness. _T'is true after all, _he thought in amazement. _I be the man who delights her, the one person she wants most to see._ She might have been smiling slightly, but he could not take his gaze from her eyes.

He stood in the doorway for several moments as if in a trance, feeling that his heart had somehow opened up. He knew without a doubt that in the next moment, as he stepped into the room, she would raise her arms; and then they would embrace. Her love would surround him, warming him. He began to take a first step – and immediately the dream flickered and dissipated like smoke. He could not call it back, and he awakened in spite of himself.

For a moment, he was too surprised to react; then he remembered Tia Dalma's warning. "_Damn_ her – the lyin' bitch," he swore angrily. You could never trust Tia Dalma. He felt a swift pang of longing, which angered him all the more. The dream had fled before he could savour it, and he would never know what might have happened.

He lay upon the berth for a time, trying to recapture each precise moment of the dream, the connection he had felt, but at last he realised that all of those sensations had gone. He could remember what took place, but not what it felt like.

His anger and resentment were still raging when they reached St Thomas; if anything, he had grown more determined to vent his fury. It was for that reason more than any practical consideration, that he accompanied his men at twilight when they set out for Tabor Stokes' establishment.

All of them could hear the gold calling as they turned down the street where the goldsmith kept his shop. They found Mr Stokes seated on a high stool, reviewing the day's transactions in his ledger. He looked up in surprise as Barbossa, Twigg, Koehler, Jacoby, Pintel and Ragetti broke down the door.

Mr Stokes was always prepared for unpleasant visitors, but as he discharged his pistol into Barbossa's chest, he was amazed to see the tall brigand laugh loudly. Then Barbossa levelled his weapon at the goldsmith and put a lead ball through his forehead. Mr Stokes dropped to the floor without a sound.

"Take it all," Barbossa snarled to his men. "He was dead already; his customers would have killed him fer losin' all their money."

The pirates made haste to empty Stokes' strongboxes and haul away those that were locked. Barbossa stood at the door as they dragged their prizes away, and though he would have relished the chance to do more violence, no one in St Thomas was bold or foolish enough to show their face.

Finally, Koehler reported that the longboat had been loaded and was ready to depart. Barbossa held still for a moment, quietly listening. When he heard no sound of the gold within the late Mr Stokes' shop, he waved his pistol towards the blood-spattered writing desk.

"An' those," he said, indicating the ledgers.

"Aye, Cap'n," Koehler replied, and scooped up all the books and papers he could lay hands on. The two pirates walked along the empty streets as though they owned the town, whilst its residents peered in breathless fear through heavily curtained windows. Barbossa's temper had gradually steadied itself and, as the crew rowed back to the _Pearl_, he was soothed even more by the hum of the gold medallions, which lay at his feet amongst the valuables plundered from Mr Stokes.

Much later that night, Barbossa was still poring over Tabor Stokes' ledger when Twigg entered the great cabin unannounced. Twigg's whiskers were bristling with indignation.

"Bloody old devil only 'ad a hundred an' twenty. That's thirty missin'! Wot's 'e done wiv 'em? Did we miss summink?" he asked Barbossa.

Barbossa, who had not raised his eyes from the ledger, put his finger upon a line of script and looked up at Twigg. "Nay, Master Twigg. Those thirty were traded to Mr Jervis," he looked at the entry again, "who sailed on the _Lorena_ this very night, bound for London after stoppin' in Port Royal." Twigg widened his eyes and glared.

"We've t' catch 'er before she gives us the slip!" he exclaimed. Barbossa smiled.

"Ye needn't worry about her givin' us the slip," he told Twigg. "She'll never make Port Royal. She's about t' be fogbound. Tell Bo'sun t' put us on course fer Port Royal an' put on as much canvas as she'll carry."

* * *

Next: The _Pearl_ overtakes the _Lorena_, Barbossa confronts Mr Jervis and makes some important decisions, and we learn more about Koehler.


	4. Here There Be Monsters

Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. The original plots and characters are owned by me.

* * *

**Here There Be Monsters**

Although the weather had been fair when the _Lorena _set sail, the last watches of the night had seen patchy fog building in from the east. Captain Harden stood at her aft rail, keeping an uneasy eye on the fog. He couldn't say why it troubled him, but he was somehow alarmed at the thought of it overtaking his ship. Still, the _Lorena_ might have made port ahead of the inclement weather if only her mizzen backstay had held together. Unfortunately, no one had observed it slowly unravelling at the top of the mizzen-mast. Each roll of the ship had severed a few more strands, until at last the entire backstay broke loose with a violent snap.

Captain Harden ordered the ship hove to, and had his bo'sun dispatch a team to repair the damage. The fog and the broken backstay put him in a nettlesome mood which was not improved when he was accosted by his least favourite passenger, the self-important, moon-faced Horace Jervis. Jervis had a nervous habit of fingering the heavy gold watch chain that adorned his waistcoat, and he appeared to be quite nervous at the moment.

"Up late, Mr Jervis?" Harden observed.

"I am a light sleeper; when the ship stopped moving, I was awakened," replied Jervis reproachfully, with a look at the mast. "Unfortunate that she should be in such ill-repair."

Harden murmured some soothing words, though he was stung by the landsman's insult to the state of his ship.

Oblivious to the effect of his words, the portly Mr Jervis continued, adding, "I hope we're not much delayed – are we not all risking our lives in these waters? Are they not infested with bloodthirsty sea robbers?"

"Nay, Mr Jervis," Harden answered testily, "Pirates be less and less common in these parts. Ye'd run more risk in the East Indies."

"Still," Jervis pursued. "Think of the value of the goods they seize! Think of the money lost by investors! And, naturally," he added, belatedly, "the innocent lives cut short!"

"I've sailed these waters for near twenty years," replied Harden, "and been boarded twice by pirates. Generally, they content themselves with plunderin' of her valuables, and don't molest the passengers unless resisted." He knocked a dottle out of the pipe he'd been smoking, and added, "I find it best to offer no resistance."

He made this last remark chiefly to goad Jervis. Harden had never been attacked by pirates, but he knew that, for the greedy little merchant, the risk of people being killed was far less upsetting than the possible theft of his possessions.

"How could you recommend such a course?" Mr Jervis burst out, clutching his watch chain. "It would be the rankest cowardice–" But Harden interrupted him.

"As long as I'm Master of the _Lorena_, Mr Jervis, I'll do as I see fit," he said, before turning back to confer with his bo'sun.

Less than a mile astern, a ship with black sails, her lights doused by order of her captain, was drawing steadily closer. Barbossa stood on the _Pearl's _starboard side near the bow, peering through his spyglass at the _Lorena_. Judging by the way her sails were set and the activity at the mizzen mast-head, he surmised that the _Lorena's _crew was making a repair – one which had forced them to heave to until it was complete.

The sight made him smile. _Fortune favours us tonight,_ he thought. He closed the spyglass and turned to Ragetti, who was standing a little to one side.

"Hoist the colours," he told Ragetti in a quiet voice. "Tell 'em t' make ready the starboard guns and keep it quiet. We'll come up on her windward side in the fog, an' give her a buccaneer's kiss."

"Aye, Cap'n," Ragetti said under his breath. With a nod and a grin, he made haste to pass along Barbossa's orders.

Barbossa turned back to the _Lorena_, listening to the faint call of the medallions. Every man on the _Pearl_ could hear it; the thrumming filled their veins with fire, calling them to seek out the gold, to seize it, and to destroy anything that stood in their way. Barbossa glanced at Jack the monkey and saw the excitement in the little animal's face; but even Jack seemed to understand that he had to keep quiet as the _Pearl_ silently gained on the _Lorena_.

Keeping an eye on the diminishing distance to his prey, Barbossa glanced quickly behind him to make sure the gunners were in position. When the two ships were quite near each other, he signaled with his arm to release the sheets and slow the _Pearl_. As they drifted slowly abeam of the _Lorena_, he suddenly shouted, "Fire!"

Captain Harden heard the shouted order, but it was far too late. There was a brilliant yellow flash off to larboard, followed a split second later by a deafening roar, as the _Pearl_ fired a broadside into the _Lorena_. Captain Harden found himself hurriedly following the philosophy he had blithely explained to Mr Jervis – amidst the screams of his crew and passengers, he struck his colours at once and called for quarter.

The _Lorena's_ dozen or so passengers milled about the main deck in panic as the pirates boarded her. "Where's the cap'n?" demanded Pintel loudly amidst a cacophony of shouting from the _Pearl's_ crew. He brandished his pistol under the noses of the terrified passengers. "Bring 'im out!"

At the same time, Twigg was shouting threats to force the same passengers to line up on the main deck. One luckless member of the _Lorena's_ crew failed to step aside quickly enough for Twigg, who drew his cutlass and slashed the man across his chest. In short order, the trembling passengers were standing in formation, Pintel and Ragetti had secured Captain Harden and the _Lorena's_ officers to the main-mast, and the rest of her crew had been herded together and made to sit on the deck some distance away, guarded by Koehler and Jacoby.

A hush fell over the passengers a moment later, when a tall, shadowy figure stepped onto the _Lorena's_ deck and approached them with a loping, deliberate stride. They moved about anxiously –- tethered prey being stalked by a lion.

As Barbossa paced the length of the line in silence, some passengers tossed pieces of jewelry and small pouches of coins at his feet, hoping to forestall the further use of force. Barbossa ignored their trinkets; he could hear the gold quite clearly, and it led him to a rotund little merchant whose quivering face shone with rivulets of perspiration. The man was standing next to an overdressed, whey-faced matron who was evidently his wife. Barbossa stopped, eyeing the couple. He drew his pistol and cocked it.

"Deliver yer goods or by God I'll blow off her head," he demanded loudly, pointing his weapon at Jervis' wife.

"Take it all," cried Jervis, and began snatching his wife's rings off her fingers. All of her jewels were thrown down on the deck, and Jervis laid his watch down as well, but did not produce the medallions. Barbossa could still hear them, a faint hum coming from the right pocket of Jervis' waistcoat.

Captain Harden suddenly called out, "We called for quarters! We yield all our goods and valuables! What is it ye want?"

"Shut it!" Barbossa snarled, glaring at the captain. Harden's question unsettled him; it was indeed remarkable for pirates to spurn valuables of any kind, and he suddenly felt that his true purpose risked exposure. _Better to plunder the ship of all she carries_, he reasoned.

"Gents, relieve 'em of their cargo an' stores," he ordered his men grandly. "I want everything." He turned back to Mr Jervis_. I'll give ye one last chance to play the gentleman,_ he thought.

"Stand off," he ordered the other passengers, who made haste to back away from Mr Jervis. Once more, Barbossa pointed his pistol at the woman's head.

"Now: deliver what I know yer carryin', or she dies," he said.

Jervis swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. "I can't give you what I don't have," he whined.

Barbossa raised his eyebrows. "Not even fer her life?" he enquired with disgust.

Jervis' face grew red, but he said nothing.

Barbossa began to squeeze the trigger, as Jervis shut his eyes and hunched his shoulders. Then, with a swift movement, he swung the pistol around and shot Jervis through the head.

Jervis dropped to the deck and his wife shrieked as she collapsed to her knees.

Barbossa motioned to Koehler to approach. "Right pocket, Master Koehler," he muttered, gesturing with the smoking pistol. Koehler extracted a purse from Jervis' waistcoat pocket and handed it to Barbossa as Jervis' wife burst into loud wails.

"Shut yer bawlin'," Barbossa ordered her. He shook the purse in her face. "Less he loved ye than what's in this purse."

He had just holstered his weapon when the moon appeared through the clouds, shining through the fog and revealing the true nature of the pirates. As the panicked screaming began, the pirate crew raised their weapons, and Barbossa called out his final orders.

"Bind 'em all fast," he commanded his men. "Blow the powder magazine. Scuttle her. No survivors, no tales o' what they saw."

The pirates worked with deadly efficiency, and it was not long afterwards that they watched from the deck of the _Pearl_ as the _Lorena_ went up in a blazing explosion. The curse prevented them from feeling the heat of the blast, but they did feel the fiery splinters of wood and iron that rained down on them.

_Thirty more medallions, _thought Barbossa, brushing cinders off his coat sleeve. He was still angry over Jervis' daring to argue with him, and disgusted at the man's willingness to abandon his wife to keep the gold. _Next time, I'll kill 'em all first, _he promised himself._ No one to argue with me, and no survivors tellin' tales of what I were searching for. _

He turned from the rail to find Pintel and Ragetti standing behind him. Ragetti was holding a silk parasol that he had evidently taken from the _Lorena_, and Pintel's eyes glinted in a way that always heralded a ridiculous plan of some sort. Barbossa raised his eyebrows as Pintel addressed him.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Cap'n," Pintel began, "but this bit o' frippery made me think o' the last thing Bootstrap said before we hoisted 'im from the yard. Said 'e knew 'ow t' make a fortune off Jack's little poppet–"

"Off a dead lass?" Barbossa scoffed. "The curse turned his wits."

Ragetti laughed. "Turned Turner's wits," he chortled.

Pintel's smile faded, but Barbossa's curiosity had been piqued. "An' how did Bootstrap say we could come at these riches?" he asked.

Brightening at once, Pintel answered, "'Er uncle's put a fair price on 'er – I thought we might disguise one of us with a gown an' all, and—"

"It be the _medallions_ we need," Barbossa pointed out sharply. "Unless the uncle can pay with Aztec gold, what care I for ransoms? Back t' work, ye bottle-headed sea slugs!" He glared after them as they retreated, and then spoke to Bo'sun. "Send Koehler t' me quarters," he said, and made his way to the day room.

Koehler entered to find Barbossa seated at the table with the open log before him. "Three missin' medallions," Barbossa said, without preamble. Koehler nodded quickly.

"Aye, Cap'n," he said, staring at the floor with a sullen expression.

He looked unwilling and yet anxious to speak, and Barbossa waited to hear him out. Koehler, he mused, had sailed with him for many years, and this man, standing before him now with stooped shoulders and glowering expression, had not always looked so menacing. Years ago, Koehler's messmates would joke that he had more luck plundering ladies than ships, and indeed he had won many a female heart with his dark eyes and handsome looks.

"I'll get you the medallions," Koehler said at last. Barbossa could sense something in his voice akin to fear, which he would have sworn was unknown to Koehler.

"Thank ye," he said. "An' where might ye be fetchin' 'em from?" Koehler hesitated, but then seemed to resolve some momentary doubt.

"Saint-Pierre," he replied, staring hard at Barbossa. "Solange has them." There was a silence while Barbossa tried to remember if Koehler had ever before mentioned the little town in Martinique, or any woman named Solange.

"My wife," Koehler explained. Still looking Barbossa in the eye, he added, "She knows nothing of the curse. If she gives them up quietly . . ."

"Ye needn't worry if she does," answered Barbossa, dishonestly. "But . . . if she doesn't . . ."

"Then she would not be the woman I think she is," Koehler replied with a serious look. Barbossa nodded, and no more was said on the subject until the _Pearl _reached Martinique.

Saint-Pierre, a small, picturesque town, lay nestled at the foot of a volcano on one of the loveliest islands in the Antilles. The first sign that the pirates were nearing their destination was the sight of Martinique's steep, mountainous peaks growing taller as the _Pearl _approached, as though they were steadily emerging from the depths of the ocean. Even at that distance, the most casual observer would have been struck by the lush, emerald verdure of the jungle-like forests that covered every part of the mountains.

Then, as the _Pearl _drew closer, the bright, narrow ribbon of Saint-Pierre came into view. Its cobbled streets were lined with brilliant yellow and orange houses with red tile roofs and blue shutters, looking like a flock of tropical birds perched on a single, long branch in the midst of an impossibly green rainforest.

All this time, Barbossa had been surveying the shore through his spyglass, but now he lowered it. He remembered the town well, and allowed himself to muse on pleasant memories of Saint-Pierre.

_It must be more than ten years,_ he thought, recalling her narrow little side streets that struggled up from the harbour towards the steep slopes of the mountains. He remembered walking those streets, inhaling the intoxicating perfume of cinnamon, sugar, mangoes and coconut that sweetened the air, whilst listening to the continual, soft, rustling flow of the many _rivières _that surrounded the town. _A jewel of a town,_ he thought. And now he could no longer immerse himself in her many charms.

The _Pearl _lingered several miles off shore in the sapphire waters until just after sunset. Then, because the land shelved away so steeply, Barbossa was able to bring the _Pearl _very close to the island's rocky coastline, with its multitude of coves and inlets – so close that the eerie fog that surrounded the _Pearl _rolled a good way up the sides of the mountains behind the town.

Koehler might have expected to go ashore by himself, but Barbossa boarded the longboat in silence, and Koehler rowed them to shore without a word. When they disembarked, Barbossa waved Koehler ahead, and the two men started up a side street so steeply pitched that it had been built with steps cut at several points. The street bore the fanciful name of "Rue Mont-au-Ciel", or "Climb-to-Heaven Street", and at the very top of it lived Koehler's wife, Solange Cyparis.

When they reached the cramped little stucco house, Koehler turned to Barbossa, who stepped back into a dark recess between two of the humble dwellings. He nodded to Koehler, and waited in the shadows.

Koehler looked quickly about, then went to the door and rapped on it softly. In a moment, someone opened the door, and light from inside the house spilled into the street. In the doorway stood Solange, tall and willowy, with light coffee-coloured skin and large, dark eyes framed by the perfect arc of her eyebrows, giving her face the appearance of an elegant doll. Her hair was pulled back and gathered simply at the crown of her head, without ringlets or any other adornment. Barbossa was astonished and envious of Koehler's pretty, graceful wife.

Solange threw her arms about her husband and drew him inside. Barbossa could see them through the glassless window, and hear Koehler reluctantly telling her that he must have the medallions. There was a moment's pause, and Barbossa made ready to draw his pistol and put an end to this encounter if Solange became distraught. However, there was only a softly murmured "Mais, pourquoi?"as she tried to read her husband's intentions. Koehler shook his head, full of mute misery, but Solange had grasped all that was necessary.

She gently disengaged herself from his arms, and fetched a small leather purse, which she handed to Koehler. _How did he make her do that so willingly? _Barbossa thought as he watched with astonishment.

Koehler was nervously bidding a quick farewell, unable to answer his wife's questions, and (Barbossa speculated) perhaps knowing the long, hellish exile to which he was condemned to return. In any case, he made such haste that he stepped out of the door and straight into a silvery patch of moonlight that instantly exposed his rotting, skeletal form.

Solange, who had followed him with her arms outstretched, froze in horror.

Once more, Barbossa began to tighten his grip on his pistol, but once more Solange confounded his expectations. Grief-stricken and frightened, she nonetheless reached out tentatively, coaxing Koehler, even taking him by his skeletal wrist, and drawing the despairing man back into the shelter of the house, where he resumed his human form. She embraced him tenderly, holding him for a long time. At last, she spoke some words softly in his ear, to which he nodded agreement, keeping his head bowed. She withdrew into the house once more, and returned with two small children clinging to her hands. She lifted them to Koehler's arms, one after the other.

_She knows this be the last farewell,_ Barbossa mused. _How is it that she still loves, seein' the monster he is now? _He dropped his hand from his pistol, fighting down the desolation that threatened to fill his breast.

Even after their farewells were said, she stood outside to watch her husband as he walked away. When he passed the corner where Barbossa waited, his captain stepped forward and walked with him in silence and without looking back.

It was not until they were back on the _Pearl _that Barbossa ventured to look through his glass at the shore. At water's edge in the moonlight, with wisps of fog curling about her, stood Solange, Koehler's lonely guardian angel, looking helplessly out to sea.

In the weeks that followed, Barbossa noticed a change in Koehler: he seemed to resign himself more to his cursed existence, becoming more sullen, more merciless than ever. He followed orders, but there was a ferocity and dull anger in his gaze that gradually became permanent, and he rarely looked his captain in the eyes.

On a sunny morning six months after visiting Martinique, Barbossa found himself standing at the larboard rail, pondering whether the boon he had obtained from Tia Dalma was, in fact, a comfort or an ordeal. A second strange dream had come to him only the night before. He was holding a green apple in his hand, purely out of habit, as he mulled over the perplexing dream.

He had not expected to sleep again so soon, and had been pleased to find himself becoming drowsy. He had fallen asleep quite easily, and soon the dream began.

This time, he was seated at a table in a house somewhat like the one in Saint-Pierre where he had watched and envied Koehler. The setting, therefore, was easy to explain; but the rest of the dream was mysterious and frustrating, tantalizing him with suggestions of a meaning he could not quite discern.

There had been a woman seated on his lap who might have been Solange, since she whispered "_Mon ange_," softly in his ear. Her arms encircled his neck and she leaned against his chest, but then she raised her head to glance shyly at him for an instant, and he saw that it was Nina. His ability to feel, to taste and to smell had returned, and he was keenly aware of the warmth and softness of her body lying against him.

Holding her in this way had made him conscious of a new feeling – a strong, almost overwhelming urge to protect her. She had twined herself about him, resting her head close to his neck. He remembered the sensation of the small hand grasping his pigtail and tightening affectionately, trustingly about it. _Aye,_ he thought with longing, recalling the dream. _She trusted me._

There was an air of quiet serenity over the scene, and he had noticed that they were breathing, he thought, in unison. He had said, "I'll keep ye safe," wanting to promise her this, wanting her to belong to him.

But she had shaken her head. What had she answered? You can't? You won't? Something like, "because of dying", but the exact words had already faded from his memory.

Then the dream had started to change, and he remembered the feeling of her warm breath as she kissed the side of his face. Suddenly overflowing with desire for her, he had kissed her mouth, wanting to drown in these sweet feelings. He had brought his hand up to caress her breast, and just as he touched her there, the dream had ended.

What had cast his spirits even lower was the thought of how little this slight contact would have meant to him before being cursed. And now he was pitifully grateful for the brief dream, struggling to recapture every sensation and luxuriate in it before it fled, yet knowing it was all quite hopeless. He was ready to accept Tia Dalma's warning that his wished-for dreams would make the rest of the time worse for him. Greed, or lust, which was simply greed by another name, had made him bargain yet again for something that was not his, and which he could not enjoy. But even more troublesome was his growing suspicion that he might be harbouring some sort of unexpected feelings towards the girl in the dreams.

He tried to think of the last time he had wanted to protect anyone. Glancing at Jack the monkey, he thought, _Well, except for you._

Then he remembered the battle on the _Pearl_, when he had slyly cut the locket off her neck with one swift flick of his sword while she was distracted. And then? Why had he followed her when she chased after the two pirates?

She had been ready to fire on them from their own deck, and follow them down the hatchway, where she would have been cut down. Stupid. Had he been protecting her, or had he simply been looking after a less-than-expert shipmate? And why did he still think of protecting her?

As if anything could threaten a drowned lass. As if he could protect a drowned lass. These were dangerous feelings, he realised.

He should have taken her when he had the chance, he thought, forced himself on her, even before sending Sparrow overboard. _Now I be a dead man, haunted for all time by a living ghost. _He looked down and discovered that, without conscious thought, he had once more taken the hairpin from his coat pocket, and was clutching it tightly. _Let the damned thing go, and her with it, _he thought. _Throw it into the sea, where her body rests until the Last Day. _

He watched his hand as it slowly returned the pin to his pocket. _Ye can't even let a hairpin go,_ he thought, with an ache in his chest. He looked at the apple in his other hand – its shiny green skin covering the juicy, sweet fruit he could not enjoy. _I wish I'd never tasted you, _he thought with great bitterness. Suddenly, he pitched the apple overboard, as hard as he could throw it.

* * *

Next: Bootstrap's medallion eludes the Pearl.

A/N: One of the reasons pirates were so successful at this time was that ships chiefly used latitudes for navigation. When sailing to their destination, they would sail to the latitude of the port where they were going, and then stay on it until they arrived. This made it quite easy for pirates to know where ships would be and, in this case, for the _Pearl_ to find the _Lorena._


	5. A Captain So Evil

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. The original plots and characters are owned by me.

* * *

**A Captain So Evil**

The cavern that sheltered the pirates' gold and the chest of Cortés was almost never in total darkness. Ancient sinkholes pierced its limestone roof, letting narrow shafts of natural light fall here and there amongst the shadows. Nonetheless, Barbossa's men always brought torches with them, and the mass of gold caught the light of their moving flames in a thousand little reflections that made the treasure glint as though tiny sparks of fire danced upon it.

On this, their third visit, the crew of the _Pearl _moved diligently to and fro across the cavern and through its tunnels. They unloaded treasure from the ship's holds in boxes, bushel baskets, barrels, pails, or anything else that they could carry, pouring out their plunder on the ground near the stone chest.

There was enough swag now to make a shallow hill under the chest of Cortés, and six of the crew had already hoisted the chest and placed it atop the gold. By this time, all of them knew the work they must do, and they went about it with scarcely a word from Bo'sun, who stood watch, or from their captain, who leaned over the stone chest, staring into it as if he could make the remaining medallions appear by sheer force of will. But Barbossa's thoughts were taken up with recollections of the raids that were slowly adding more gold to the chest. As he stared at the heap of identical medallions in the chest, he still fancied he could pick out the ones they had captured in each raid.

Those four, near his right hand – he was certain they had come from the drifting boat he had discovered a week before. There were five men in it, from a merchant ship that had broached and gone down in heavy weather three weeks earlier; but one of them had four medallions hidden under his shirt, and that was enough to draw the pirates. The survivors had exhausted their food and water, and were dying in the grip of fantastical hallucinations when they spied the _Pearl_ sailing towards them on the dark sea.

The man with the medallions must have reckoned he'd be picked up by a ship before he died, and would go ashore as a wealthy man. Barbossa smiled, remembering. Just like himself, however, the man was not in a position to enjoy his riches; and Barbossa considered that his order to cut the throats of all five proved his own merciful nature, because it put an end to their misery.

Then he glanced at ten medallions that lay heaped in a corner of the chest. Their recovery had been a happy coincidence, due to his very enterprising crewman, Ned Mallot.

At a small port known to him, Mallot had gone ashore during the day to see if he could quietly extract a barrel or two of gunpowder from the local armoury, when he had been recognised by a very drunken former acquaintance, who had not heard news of the curse. He pressed Mallot to accompany him to the tavern, and as he drank, complained to his friend that the local customs officials had got ten fancy medallions as bribes from himself and other local smugglers, but had still cheated them of their bargains.

Crafty Mallot had got the names of the customs collectors before quietly dispatching his friend in a convenient alley, and picking the dead man's pockets. He then used the stolen money to convince a dishonest watchman at the dock to help him load two barrels of gunpowder into his boat without a fuss.

Barbossa laughed softly to himself. Sharp, cunning Mallot; a dangerous man, and one he'd want to keep his eye on, he decided.

A week later, when the_ Pearl_ caught up with the customs sloop, the revenue men had proved themselves cowards – hiding and refusing to fight Barbossa's men. He had ordered his crew to take their munitions, since the_ Pearl_ was running low. After that, the pirates had chased the unfortunate officers round the rigging like cats chasing mice, cutting their throats and taking back the medallions.

One man had tried to escape in the ship's boat, but it drifted away before he could drop into it, leaving him hanging off the ship by his fingers. Barbossa had trod on them, and threatened to feed the man to the sharks in pieces if he didn't surrender the gold. When the man offered a purse, Barbossa had seized it, and run his sword through the man's chest. _An' kept me word_, he thought, congratulating himself. _He weren't in pieces when the sharks got him._

In all, they had taken forty medallions. Now they needed four hundred and eighty-nine more. Barbossa closed his eyes for a moment, squeezing his eyelids shut. At this rate, it would take forever. At this rate, he didn't want to complete his calculations.

He watched Koehler and Twigg as they brought in a huge crate of gold and poured it out onto the heap of treasure. Koehler looked up briefly when he finished, and his sullen eyes met Barbossa's gaze for an instant before he turned back to his work, his expression unchanged. Everything was in that one look; his captain had seen, firsthand, the price of the curse for Koehler, and knew that Koehler held him responsible.

Again, Barbossa thought of Solange's tenderness towards her doomed husband, and tried to imagine himself enjoying that degree of devotion: a pretty woman, caring, reaching out, standing loyally at the water's edge for sheer love of him, no matter what befell.

He turned his gaze back to the contents of the chest, recalling different women in his past. There was the one he had trusted, thinking she would never desert him, until the day she betrayed him to one of his enemies without a backward glance. After that, he'd found another, a cheerful wench who could match his drinking, tankard for tankard. He had enjoyed her company at first, but she had grown to love rum more than him; her bonny looks were ruined, and her sweet temper became as sour and angry as his own before they parted.

And then? Ah, yes! There was the one he had aspired to claim as his own because he thought her spirited, and wanted to conquer her. They had fought like cats and dogs, which he mistook as a sign of their passion. How many times had she demanded his money and his fidelity, with many an oath and much smashed crockery? He still remembered the anger and humiliation he felt when he found that every coin he gave her went to another man. Then he had almost killed her; after a blazing row, she stormed out, vowing that one day she would stand at the foot of the gallows expressly to watch him be hanged.

Barbossa shook his head at the memory. How could you trust anyone? How had Koehler managed it? No, he had never known, nor ever would know, the kind of love that Koehler had lost. Perhaps yielding to the siren song of imagination was better. He could envision this "Nina", not as she was, but as he chose to imagine her, mourning him, clasping him.

As he mused thus, he was startled to hear Jacoby and the Ox shouting that the _Pearl's_ holds were now empty. He shook off his mood, and called out, "Then t'is back t' the ship, ye bilge rats, and don't take all day – we've work t' do!"

That evening, as Barbossa consulted his log once more, the red dress that lay upon the settle caught his eye. Though he had promised himself to avoid certain lines of thought, his quick mind darted ahead of his intentions, and again posed questions that had no answer.

Was the wretched girl alive or not? He recalled finding her boots next to the gun port and the cannon with the rope tied around it. She had gone out the port and shimmied down the rope – or fallen – into the sea. _Witless, obstinate little fool,_ he thought. _If she be dead, t'is no fault of anyone but herself. Now stifle yer curiosity, _he warned himself,_ or ye'll end like the poor cat in the fable._

His anger at her stupidity comforted him; it was easier to think of her that way than to be pining for a drowned lass. But had she drowned? Or was she alive, and would she be old and grey by the time the curse was lifted? And what was Tia Dalma doing with the braid of her hair? He walked over to Jack the monkey's perch and sought distraction in the little animal's chattering and playful antics, until the next watch was called.

The following morning, Ragetti heard a faint but familiar humming sound in the distance, and immediately consulted Pintel.

"It's _really quiet_, but I think it's one 'o them medallions," he told Pintel in a hushed voice. "Should I tell Cap'n Barbossa?"

"If you're really 'earin' of it, then why ain't the rest of us 'earin' it?" Pintel demanded. "Why ain't Barbossa 'earin' it? P'raps the curse is just makin' your ears ring."

Ragetti shook his head, and just at that moment, Barbossa emerged from his quarters, looking about him like a hungry wolf sniffing the air. His eye fell on Ragetti. "Ye hear it, don't ye?" he asked sharply. "An' just when did ye mean t' mention it?"

Before Ragetti could answer, Barbossa pushed past him, calling orders to set a course almost due north from their current position. Pintel and Ragetti exchanged glances, and Pintel shrugged. "Looks like 'e don't need us t' tell 'im, don'it?" he remarked with a grin.

For the next three days, the _Pearl_ followed the sound of the gold. On the fourth day, Barbossa scanned the horizon through his spyglass, and sighted a large, three-masted Indiaman some distance away. Hidden in the fog, he had no fear of being discovered by the Indiaman, but the larger ship carried more sail, and her hull speed was faster, which concerned him. He reflected upon whether she might, under the right conditions, give the _Pearl _a great deal of trouble catching her. He checked the appearance of the water around her, and concluded that the winds were lighter where she sailed; perhaps they could get close enough to trap her.

He kept a careful watch on her over the next hour as the _Pearl _drew closer, and was surprised to see her take in canvas and heave to, although he couldn't detect any sign of a problem.

_By the powers, _he wondered,_ what the devil is she waitin' for?_

On board the Indiaman _Enid_, out of Bristol, Captain Claughton was looking aft, anxiously peering through the fog for the slightest trace or sound of a vessel. He knew that there was a ship of the line not more than a day's sailing behind him, and he had hove to in hopes of encountering her. He was in dire need of help with a nasty situation on the _Enid_.

For reasons that would, as it turned out, forever remain a mystery, one of the _Enid's_ deckhands had got into a brawl with the ship's cook, and dispatched him with the largest cleaver in the galley. Then the deckhand, one Mason Shanker, had fled to some bolt hole, threatening to blow up the ship and every soul on her if anyone pursued him. Captain Claughton had not known a moment's peace after discovering that Shanker, as far as could be told, was likely hiding out in the powder magazine.

Claughton heaved a nervous sigh and looked aft of the _Enid_ once more. No sign of the warship in this damned weather, though he knew she would be invisible until she was almost upon them. He hoped she would emerge from the fog before Shanker blew them all to kingdom come_. If I'd wanted this sort of excitement, I could have joined the bloody navy, _he thought.

Then he heard a panicked shout from his lookout: "Ship, on our larboard beam! Closin' fast!" Claughton turned just in time to see a black ship with a ghoulish maiden as her figurehead, making straight for the _Enid_. The strange ship turned smartly and had actually collided with her before Claughton saw the black sails and pirate colours, and knew the _Enid _was doomed.

On board the _Pearl_, Barbossa was bellowing commands, as the pirates threw their grapples and leapt onto the _Enid_, chasing crew and passengers alike, and cutting down anyone in their path, just as their captain had ordered them. The ship became a scene of pandemonium and slaughter; the deck ran with blood and the air filled with screams and smoke from the many pistols discharged on both sides. At last, Twigg swung his sword at the neck of the last survivor, and suddenly there was quiet. The pirates stood on deck for a moment, slightly out of breath, before Barbossa gave them the order to seize all the cargo and bring it aboard.

As the pirates began to bring up the cargo, Twigg approached Barbossa. "I 'eard a few noises below," he said in a confidential tone. "Think we've got someone 'idin' in the magazine." Barbossa raised his eyebrows and turned to Bo'sun.

"Take the _Pearl_ an' stand off," he said. "We'll bring over the swag in her longboats."

The two ships drew apart, and as each boat was rowed over to the _Pearl_, Barbossa sensed that the gold was still on the _Enid_. When the last boat was loaded with baskets, trunks and a crate, he stepped into it with Twigg and two others. If the call of the gold grew fainter by the time they reached the _Pearl_, he would send a dozen crew back over to tear the Indiaman apart down to her bilges, and hope whoever was in the magazine didn't set off an explosion.

"Pull for the _Pearl_, me hearties," Barbossa called out. The men seized their oars but, not two strokes later, the_ Enid_ exploded in a huge fireball that billowed into the sky.

The pirates laughed and shouted cheers at the sight, but Barbossa looked grim. If the gold were not in this last load of cargo, it would mean searching through all the debris to find it. Still, he was able to hear the humming sound, so there was a chance that he had it aboard, perhaps in one of the two fancy trunks in the longboat.

Amidst the raucous cheering, the top of a basket was thrown open, and to everyone's astonishment, a frightened boy in worn-looking clothes popped out, blinking as he looked about him. "Please," he begged the jeering men, "please . . ."

But whatever he meant to ask for was lost, because at that moment, Twigg stood up in the boat and swung his oar wildly at the boy's head, almost missing him, but tapping him hard enough to throw him off balance. The boy tried to hold onto the gunwale as the boat rocked, and Twigg took a staggering step towards him. Then the boy fell into the water, and struggled to stay afloat, to the general laughter of the pirates.

"D' ye think this be a game, Twigg?" Barbossa shouted, red-faced. With an angry look, he held out his hand to Twigg and took the oar. He poked at the boy and prodded him onto a piece of the _Enid's_ deck, where he passed out. "Now there's nothin' t' distract ye," Barbossa said, glaring at the crew. As the laughter died and the men stared at him, Barbossa lashed out at Twigg.

"Who d' ye think ye are?" he snarled. "I give the orders here! Ye could endanger the boat in the midst o' burnin' wreckage - just so's ye could have yer bit o' fun! Do something like that again, an' I'll leave ye in the magazine next time!"

"Aye, Cap'n," Twigg muttered, subsiding back into his place.

As they rowed beyond the wide field of floating debris that marked the end of the _Enid, _Barbossa noticed that the call of the medallion was growing faint once again. The crew had begun to bring the cargo onto the _Pearl_, but he stopped them and ordered Pintel and Ragetti into the boat at once.

"The medallion's amongst the wreckage," he cried, "Find it!"

But before they could climb down the ladder to the boat, Ragetti turned to Barbossa in alarm. "Cap'n!" he said, wide-eyed as he pointed towards the unmistakable silhouette of a large warship approaching the wreck. Immortal they might be, but the pirates still feared capture – spending innumerable years incarcerated in a cell with no chance of hunting down the rest of the medallions.

Barbossa reacted at once. "Let fall the mainsail!" he shouted. "Haul aft the mainsheet!" Better avoid a confrontation, and return afterwards to recover their prize, he reckoned. Taking the helm of the _Pearl_, he steered her slowly south by southeast, away from the warship and the remains of the _Enid_.

Later that day, when the warship had departed and the _Pearl_ returned, there was no sound from the gold. The pirates searched frantically through the wreckage, but found nothing.

On the _Pearl's_ main deck, Koehler argued with Ragetti. "Did anyone actually _see _a medallion? Maybe everything we went through was just because you _thought_ you heard something!"

"There had to be a medallion," Ragetti protested. "Cap'n heard it, too!" The two pirates glanced at Barbossa, who gave them both a murderous look before striding off to his quarters.

Once alone, Barbossa opened the ship's log, but found he could not concentrate. He slammed shut the book and pitched it towards a bulkhead. Then he sat still, trying to master his temper and his thoughts. He had failed to get the medallion. He was certain he had heard it, and now it was gone. He had no idea where it had come from, or where in the wreckage it had been lost.

And what had possessed him, that he had stopped that young imp from drowning? This was a difficult question, and made him very uncomfortable, for the answer lay in his own boyhood. For just a moment, as the boy had turned a desperate face to Barbossa, he had seen himself at about the same age, pleading as once he used to plead for food, for a place to sleep, for small favours from people who could well afford to give, back in the years before he had stopped pleading and began taking instead.

Miles away, on board the _Dauntless_, the boy from the _Enid_ was lying in a stupour, under the care of the ship's surgeon. He had given them the name of the ship, and the doctor felt it would be well to let him recover a bit before pressing him further.

At the same time, Governor Swann's serious little daughter was insisting to Mr Gibbs that she had seen a ship with black sails – "a _pirate_ ship," she emphasised – sailing away from the wreck. However, feeling that somehow she was a part of some great, secret adventure, she did not tell anyone the boy's name or anything about the golden coin she had taken from him.

_T'was the cursed pirates_, thought Mr Gibbs. _Cursed pirates if I ever heard of 'em, an' a ship with black sails, eh? _And he began to weave these details into other stories he had heard, for the enjoyment and enlightenment of those kind companions who paid for his drinks in various ports-of-call.

* * *

Next (not posted yet): Tia Dalma tells an ancient story, and Barbossa dreams of a ship becalmed.


End file.
